Locked Traces
by Keep Calm Love Maxon
Summary: The Winchester brothers are called to investigate Sherlock Holmes' death, only to find Sherlock himself and assist him in finding the mysterious, alien Doctor.
1. Introduction (Please Read)

**PLEASE READ IF YOU ARE A SUPERWHOLOCKIAN SUPER FAN:**

I've only watched about 4 seasons of Doctor Who and not even half of Season 1 of Supernatural (but I've watched all of Sherlock), so please don't get enraged if I have a couple wrong facts. I have a Doctor Who fact-checker already on the job, so hopefully most of the Doctor Who information will be correct - if anything's wrong, it'll most likely be Supernatural.

_I apologize for any inconvenience. :_(

**_IMAGINE THIS FANFICTION WITH THE SAM & DEAN WINCHESTER THAT ARE LIKE IN THE 6TH EPISODE OF SEASON 1 SUPERNATURAL. THIS IS ALSO AFTER SHERLOCK FAKED HIS DEATH. _**

**Thanks for reading if you actually did! (: Hopefully it will clear up a few things. ENJOY! :):):)**


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1: **(third person)

Sam rested his back roughly against the seat, staring at the lifeless road ahead of them. Dean drove very quickly and sharply, as always. They were in some rural part of London, obviously, as there weren't any British people nagging about their incorrect driving and calling them twats. Well, that's how Sam always imagined Brits, but of course, they could be different. Although Sam considered himself pretty knowledgeable, when it came to foreign subjects, he was rusty.

"When the hell are we gonna get to the streets?" Dean mumbled angrily.

"This looks nothing like the red bus-filled roads that I've seen in magazines, Dean. Do we need a map?" Sam asked dangerously. Dean was a rather arrogant person who confided in themselves and their thoughts, so when Dean scoffed at his suggestion of a map, Sam knew never to ask again.

"A map? Are you kidding me? I'm Dean Winchester, if I can perform exorcisms, I can definitely get into London," he responded.

"So why are we going to London anyways?" Sam inquired.

"Look in the backseat, there's a file on... Sherlock Homes, I think. Rather strange name but the man took his life by jumping off a building a few weeks ago. He was a big-shot, ya know? Pretty famous," Dean stated, nodding his head towards the back of the car. Sam unbuckled his seat-belt for a second and reached back, snatching a ton of files up before sinking back into the passenger seat, looking through them to find Sherlock _Holmes_ as one of the first ones.

"It's _Holmes_, Dean. We can't get a dead man's name wrong," Sam joked.

"Actually, a lot of people still think he's alive," Dean replied. "Shoot. Missed the turn," he said with an angry twist of the wheel.

Sam looked at the pictures of Sherlock and his companion, John Watson. They looked like two polar opposites - one short and blond and the other tall and a brunette. As the Winchesters drove for nearly another hour, Sam figured that Sherlock was a detective, and Watson was his assistant or something of the sort. They've solved nearly hundreds of mysteries that seemed completely impossible. Watson had a blog that reached tons of views each day before Sherlock completed his suicide, and he saw something about how ignorant Sherlock was, even though he had a rather extraordinary mind.

"Okay! Okay! One more turn and we're going into London," Dean said.

"You better get on the left side, then, or people are going to bite your head off," Sam advised, still carefully analyzing Sherlock's files. "So what do you suppose is supernatural about this?"

"Are Brits really that bad? And I dunno, something about it doesn't add up. Why would somebody so extraordinary and mind-blowing and famous kill himself? And if it wasn't a suicide, who would have killed him?" Dean responded, quickly turning onto the left side, where the hunter struggled with adjusting to the unfamiliar manner of driving. Dean had already had the wrong type of car, so it was difficult enough.

"I guess. And this seems like something for another consulting detective; why are we here?" Sam moped, watching as Dean turned a few more times into some more crowded streets until it seemed all of the skyscrapers and gigantic buildings engulfed the sky. They drove until Dean rid himself of the frustration of driving in the British manner and pulled over near a sidewalk, or 'pavement', as they preferred saying.

Sam leapt out of the car along with Dean, and they stood on the sidewalk until Sam asked his question again.

"Why are we here, Dean?"

"Because. We need to find, uh.. 'their' old apartment. Do you think they were, like.." Dean started, but Sam rolled his eyes before cutting him off with the smack of a shoulder.

"They weren't gay. Just, err, 'flatmates'. God, this British lingo is so weird. Anyways, it says they lived in 221B, Baker Street," Sam interrupted, then continued to walk down the sidewalk, his hands still holding Sherlock's file. They must have looked a bit strange. Their style of clothing involved leather jackets and tees, while most of the British people that walked by them wore more cozy things. It was indeed chilly, but Sam nor Dean weren't too bothered by the cold.

As they walked down the sidewalk, desperately looking for a Baker Street sign, Sam could tell they were given odd glances. Some were disgusted, while others were out of pure curiosity. The Winchesters must have looked like a pair of lost Americans. Dean took the risky chance of asking somebody where Baker Street was. He watched for somebody more elderly and sincere. Old people tended to be pretty nice.

"Ma'am, would you happen to know where Baker Street is?" he asked an elderly lady dressed in a pink coat.

"Ohh, yes. How could you not? It was the flat of brilliant Sherlock Holmes. Such an extraordinary detective. Oh my, where am I going with that? Anyways, it is not too far from here. Take a left and you'll be placed in front of Speedy's Cafe," the woman said gingerly, clasping her hand upon her chest quite actively, and using plenty of hand gestures. Sam nodded awkwardly once she finished and continued to her destination as the two brothers dashed up the street, careful not to run into peaceful Brits walking past. As they turned around the corner, Dean hit a cart stand, cursing instantly.

"God dammit!" Dean shouted. People nearby were a little outraged by Dean's little outburst. Then, Dean noticed that there was a _lot _of people nearby, and a _lot _of people were outraged.

"What's your problem, mate?" one of the older men grumbled.

"Eh, eh, mate! What are you, Australian?" Dean shot back furiously before standing up and returning to Sam's side. There was an entire crowd in front of Speedy's Cafe, their eyes wide as they stared desperately at the door beside the entrance of the cafe. The brothers thought the people were completely bizarre until Sam looked back to his papers and realized that the door was the entrance to Sherlock's old flat.

"It's blocked up. There must be a window, why don't we sneak in through that way?" Sam suggested.

"Because that totally won't freak out the Watson guy," Dean agreed, and Sam nodded sarcastically.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Sam said with a toothy smirk, and the two brothers darted around the block, heading for Sherlock Holmes' window.


	3. Chapter 2

_(A/N: Err, sorry for not updating too much! I promise the next chapter will come more quickly. ^_^ Enjoy!)_

Mrs. Hudson stood in the kitchen, watching as John simply sat and stared at the couch in front of him. The back of his blond head was messy and not straight and flat as usual. He looked clearly distressed, even from behind. He hadn't been the same since Sherlock had taken his life, and even though John struggled to pay the rent, she felt awfully pitiful for him, and allowed him to stay.

"John, would you like some tea?" she asked him gingerly.

"I thought you weren't my housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson," he mumbled.

"Well, I am now, only for a minute! Now, John, some tea, yes?" she persuaded, not bothering to comfort the lonely man. She had already attempted to do so, but absolutely nothing resulted out of Mrs. Hudson's gentle, kind words. The air just became painful around John, as if he had a gigantic, bloody, disgusting wound on his forehead. It was like every time you approached him, you could feel the hurt. But it was nothing compared to what the actual injured person was feeling.

"I'm grateful. Thank you," he answered after a while. Mrs. Hudson thought Sherlock had just staged his death, but as two months went by, her hope began to stagger, and eventually, all of it was lost. John still had faith Sherlock was living and breathing. It was so clear to the rest of the world that the apparent 'phony' had taken his own life out of embarrassment and shame. The elderly lady still didn't know what to think of Sherlock's confession. It couldn't have been true; Holmes was an extraordinary man.

She trudged into the kitchen, preparing the kettle for two cups of tea.

John felt weary as he sat on the chair, longingly staring at the couch in front of him, imagining the perky and clever man laying on it once again, staring up into the ceiling as he blocked out all other lifeforms. John knew it was time to move on, but this man altered his lifestyle, and it felt useless to go back to his boring, unfriendly self. So little happened with his old life until he shot the cab driver, and was a fugitive of the law. It made his heart beat at more a excitable pace. But the pain and worry returned shortly after Sherlock had supposedly died.

He had a cane.

John heard some muffled noises and knocks near the eastern window and stood up, narrowing his eyes. His breath hitched from the agony in his leg, and he rested his hand on his cane, pulling it up with him.

Abruptly, two men started slamming their fists passionately on the window. One had rather long hair and soft eyes, and was much more gentle in appearance than the shorter, scruffier one who was the most vigorous about the knocking. John rushed as quickly as he could to the window, hoping Mrs. Hudson didn't hear it. John struggled to open the window without holding onto his cane, so he almost stumbled as it finally shoved above him.

"Sammy and Dean Winchester, hello!" said the one with sharp facial features and short hair. They were American, their accents were apparent.

"Uhm, Dr. John Watson. Why are you outside my window?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

"We have some.. err.. questions for you, Dr. Watson, could we come inside?" asked the long-haired one.

"I suppose. But why didn't you just go to the front door?" John asked, stepping back so the two, he assumed, brothers could climb into his flat. John took a seat on the single chair he always sat on and looked up at them with a questionable look on his face.

"You have mobs, dude. You're famous!" the smaller one said excitably. "By the way, I'm Dean, and he's Sammy."

"Sam," he corrected.

"Alright, well, Mrs. Hudson, my land-lady will return in a moment or so. Would you like some tea?" John offered politely, a small, fake smile peeking out of his lips.

"No. Anyways, do you know Sherlock Holmes?" Dean asked rashly. John flinched at Sherlock's name, he hadn't heard it spoken of from anybody besides the media, which basically soaked up Sherlock's death and made it a morbid fairy-tale. John always despised how the media was a team of gawkers who crowded around death and unhappiness and claimed it as 'news'. He saw the situation plenty of times on old investigations, and it was very sad for those who had been exploited. But it felt so strange for it to be happening to him.

"Uh, Dr. Watson?" Sam coughed, instantly breaking his train of thought.

"Oh, I apologize. Yes, I _did _know him," he responded coldly.

"He died, we know. How do you think he was killed?" Dean asked once again, rather forward with the entire idea. John hadn't encountered somebody who wasn't as ungentle with it, they usually tried to make the words very soft. But _died _and _killed w_ere harsh words, no matter how quietly you said them.

"Dean, slow down, he's probably mortified at it still. I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. We are investigators. I know it must be weird to have investigators to come in.. so.. late," Sam began quietly.

"Uh, like three months late," Dean scoffed.

"Shut it. Anyways, we need some information, some true, true, information from you before we can begin. To be honest, we think the death was at the hands of something.. rather, supernatural, may I add?" Sam whispered, leaning forward. He immediately fled backward into his chair as Mrs. Hudson walked into the room, her eyes widening when she saw the two gruff-looking, suspicious brothers. John looked back, nodding a greeting as he mouthed 'it's alright'. She took her tray of cookies and tea back into the kitchen, where she sat it on the counter and breathed heavily. She thought all the investigators and officers were done with Sherlock's death, they no longer had any interest with it. But obviously, these two bizarre men still were.

"Supernatural? How so?" John inquired once Mrs. Hudson had left the room. The last time he had encountered something strange, something.. supernatural, was when they had gone to the Baskervilles, him and Sherlock. The beast still lingered in his vision, and he hated how Sherlock had slipped the drug into his coffee that day. It made him smile a little at Sherlock's humorous ignorance of friendship, but sadness leaked back into his mind once again when he remembered that on that same day, Sherlock had claimed John was his friend. His only friend.

"Well, we're not sure yet. But we're sort of bounty hunters for that type of thing, and - " Sam explained, but Dean kicked his boot into Sam's leg as his brother stifled a yelp.

"Goddamn, Sam, don't tell him our life story," Dean warned into Sam's ear, leaning back and attempting to have a nonchalant attitude once John had given him a confused look.

"Uhm, anyways, we think you may be able to help us. Dispose of something supernatural, if there is anything," Sam continued, a smile spreading across his face. The two brothers twitched, staring at the army doctor hopefully. John seemed to have looked unfazed by the whole mention of supernatural beings, which usually tended to throw certain individuals into total and utter shock. But he sat there, an emotionless look on his face as he stared at the Winchesters.

"Alright, I will assist. But now, could I ask you leave my flat? I've got some things to do, yes?" John agreed, and the brothers high-fived each other cheerfully as they nodded and began to scurry towards the window. Sam lifted it up with enormous strength.

They waved a subtle good-bye to John as they slipped themselves out of the window and hung on tightly to the windowsill. Once it was shut tight, Dean decided to have a look around. His eyes widened and his breath hitched as he looked down and saw a mop of black curly hair underneath their feet.


End file.
